Category Archives: Evil morons

Post navigation

This isn’t a political blog. And this isn’t an argument, just an expression of disgust. The trough-snuffling corruption, the ridiculous lying, the cruelty, the bullying, just piss me off.

I’m busy. I’ve got a book to finish, and the smell of the end in my nostrils. So I’m not going to write politics. But yeah: we have to stop voting hyenas into positions of power. It’s a really dumb thing to do.

My great-grandfather was at Gallipoli. Gallipoli was an attempt to get a land pathway into Europe which British troops could follow, and attack the Germans closer to Germany than the stagnant lands created by trench warfare.

The road through Turkey would be opened by non-British troops, mainly New Zealanders and Australians, whose deaths in a futile and poorly planned operation wouldn’t be making headlines in England. There was a beach selected for this task, and naturally the British navy sailed straight past it and dumped the “colonial” troops into a beach where conditions would be intolerable if you lived, and where the Turks could sit up in the hills safely pouring lead onto the poor bastards on the beachhead.

Anyway, my great-grandfather was stuck on the killing beach. He did what you do under the circumstances. You try to go forward, you try to kill people wearing the other clothing style, you try to keep your head down and stay alive, and sometimes you do crazy brave things because the men you’re with are doing them too.

He came back from the meat-grinder alive but fucked. He couldn’t re-settle, he couldn’t be with his family, and he spent the rest of his life, except his last two years, trying to drink himself to death. Unluckily for him, the Mortimers have weird genes, and though he spent nearly eighty years consuming pretty much nothing but gin when he could afford it and sherry when times were worse, smoking when he could and sleeping rough, he lived until his late nineties.

In the last eighteen month of his life, when he was ninety-six, he became the live-in handyman at a block of apartments in Nelson, chopping wood (I told you we’re genetically weird), fixing fuses and hinges and water piping for the young couples living around him. He was proud of himself for the first time since 1915.

He died in the 1990s. Someone managed to locate his family and contacted my father, who wasn’t actually a relation except by marriage, and he went down and cleared up .

Anyway, my great-grandfather wouldn’t talk about Gallipoli, or Chunuk Bair. There wasn’t much to say. Except one thing. He said he was on the slopes with a donkey carrying water. The donkey got hit smack in the stomach by a cannon shell. It whipped its head around in time to see the middle of its body gone and its hind legs falling. Then the front of the donkey fell too, head facing my great-grandfather.

My great-grandfather used to say that the expression on the donkey’s face, when it realised it was fucked (grotesquely destroyed, if you prefer), was something he’d never forget as long as he lived.

I never met my great-grandfather. The only time I ever saw him was when I was nine. I was at a family wedding that he, pointedly, hadn’t been invited to. He turned up drunk, with a drunk friend, and got turned away. I missed that, but saw him later at a kid’s play area with a helter skelter. He and his friend decided to walk up the spiral of the slide, and come down the ladder.

It took them a long time but they made it, with assorted family members standing a distance away making disgusted comments. I knew nothing, understood nothing, but I did feel a kind of sympathy with him. Not “that poor man”. More like, “that’s odd but kind of cool”.

It was my mother who told me the only thing he’d ever said about his experience at Gallipoli. So I don’t know how he told that story: was it a parable about the way the New Zealand and Australian men were treated when the British decided to throw their lives onto a choppingboard? I don’t know: but my guess is that, yeah, it was that, but above all, he thought it was funny.

The people in my country have the blackest sense of humour I’ve encountered anywhere in the world. Throw in having lived through Gallipoli, and I’d say my great-grandfather would have had get a sense of humour so dark it had infinite gravity.

Anyway, I’ve never given a fuck about ANZAC Day. Nor, I understand, did he.

When I see it being used by politicians to defend more stupid military deployments, for the sake of someone else’s empire, I get really, deeply disgusted and angry. And it’s nearly impossible to make me angry.

So, I think the poor sods in the army, navy or air force who get sent where their country tells them to go deserve sympathy, and most importantly they deserve real help while they’re alive.

But fuck ANZAC Day. It was bullshit in the first place, and it’s now been securely seized by right-wing, race-baiting arseholes. Fuck them, fuck the politicians, fuck the snivelling scumlicking bullies in the Murdoch press, fuck all that bullshit. Fuck, as I said, ANZAC Day.

I remember the mess it made of my great-grandfather, sometimes, in bugle-free private, and I remember that poor bloody donkey.

I’m living in Australia at the moment, but I’m not an Australian. There’s always been too much about the country that makes me feel like I don’t want to join it, or identify with it.

There’s the racism, in particular.

I’m not talking about the stuff where someone is making conversation and asks a person who is black or Asian, “Where are you from?” Because there’s a possible sub-text of, “If you’re not white, you’re not from here” about it. But it can also be a well-meaning but under-informed person who means, “I think you look fantastic! Where do they make more people like you?”

My point is, it’s always a clueless question to ask, and sometimes there might be a negative racist meaning to it, and sometimes there might not be. But my sympathies aren’t always with the person taking offence. A little bit of polite person-to-person education goes a lot further, and does more good, than all the offence-taking in the world.

Anyway, when I say Australia is a racist country I’m not talking about that kind of thing.

Rather, it’s about the deliberatively, knowingly genocidal history of what has been done to the Aboriginal people. And the incredible, shockingly callous endorsement of that genocide by a fuck of a lot of Australians, once you get them in private. They don’t even need to have a drink in their hand. The day after I arrived in Australia, some quite wealthy, educated guy said to me, “oh, Abos: they should have put out more poisoned flour sacks.”

Then I was in a Post Office and I saw a police notice. They wanted to know if the public had seen some offender. The ad said, “non-Australian appearance”. What that meant was that he wasn’t white. Then I was talking to a cop, who said it was a pity we’d moved out of the old days when they’d just take Aboriginal young men down to the station and “give them a bit of a flogging”. He was a young cop. By “the old days”, he’d mean “about five years ago”.

It’s about the fact that life expectancy for Aboriginal people in their own country is fifteen years less than any other statistical group. Fifteen fucking years.

And so on. And their media is run almost entirely by Rupert Murdoch, and leans so far to the right it’s lying on its side. And “lying” is the word. “Bullying of people who dare to speak out” are also the right words to describe Australia’s craven, contemptible media.

So I don’t love Australia. I love many Australians, and like a lot of others. But the vibe of the place: No, I don’t love that.

Now a group of right-wing nutters and church-ridden homophobes are trying to stop marriage equality from coming to Australia. They’d decided to put the issue to a postal survey, which is calculated to favour the group most opposed to gay marriage, that is, the over-65s, while cutting out the group – just about everyone 30 and under – who most favour gay marriage.

Knowing that no one in that group uses postal mail, or checks their letter box, any more. It’s a “survey” where the homophobes get to have their thumb on one side of the scales.

So … I’m going to have to become an Australian citizen. Not because I love a sun-burned country. The truth is that I don’t. But I approve of love, and if people want to marry the person they love, I’m not going to let a bunch of heartless bigots keep them from having that right.

Eight years ago (i.e. 2009), when she was 18 Laci Greenwas making valuable, educational and funny youtube videos on sex issues, and occasionally on why she thinks religion is (a) nonsense, and (b) not so terribly good to and for women.

She’s largely dropped making references to her atheism, which I think is a pity, but understandable if your main concern is issues affecting young women and sex-positivity.

Laci Green. Her smile takes up a bigger proportion of her face than with normal human beings.

Anyway, one day in 2009 Laci Green made a video saying that people should be accepting of and nice towards transgender people. They shouldn’t be haters: in fact, “haters” was the name for that video episode. Unluckily for her, she had a transgender person as her guest, and he used the word “tranny” of himself and others.

Not knowing that other transgender persons hate the word, she copied him and used the word too.

I have a bit of a “there but for the grace of god go I” feeling about this, because at the time I would have given the very same offence while trying to say something supportive. That’s because a girlfriend of mine worked as a cleaner at the Gender Centre in Sydney, and I’d often help her clean because I wanted to play squash with her when she was done. (“Play squash” sounds like a euphemism, but it isn’t.)

That meant I knew about a dozen politically aware transgender people at the time, and they all used the word “tranny” of themselves and others. So, when I was in conversation with them and it was relevant, I did too. I’m sure I’ve used it in other contexts, thinking I was being supportive. If I’d made videos, they’d still be preserved, of course.

There’s also the fact that she and apparently other family members have had death threats. I relate to that, because I was once an organiser and media spokesperson for a tenants’ union, and some people didn’t like me getting in the way of certain landlords. Initially I was genuinely flattered and amused when I started to get death threats on the landline. Problem was, my roommates sometimes answered the phone too, and they’d cop the threats intended for me. So I learned that when this shit is directed at one person, it also affects a lot of other people around them.

Anyway, this began in 2012, when someone saw Laci Green’s “haters” video, which was then three years old, and wrote to her asking why she’d used the word “tranny”.

She replied: “You are totally right and I sincerely apologize for my mistake. Before I educated myself about trans issues I had not the slightest inkling of how the word is used to dehumanize nor its place in the cycle of violence against transfolk. Now I have seen people hurt by it and seen it used as a nasty slur. Words have power, and “tranny” is not a word for anybody but transfolk themselves to use because only they can reclaim it.”

As a result of the apology, a whole lot of people went berserk. They decided Laci Green was an anti-transgender person activist, who was leading the charge against rights and acceptance. This would have been news to the various Christian right activists who really were running an anti-transgender persons agenda, an agenda now being put into place in several US States.

Anyway, she got a torrent of hate mail, demanding that she kill herself, along with threats of violence, and, to show they meant it, they posted pictures of Ms Green’s home on-line.

The police took the threats seriously, and suggested to Ms Green that for her own safety she should move. She disappeared off-line for a while. When she came back it was with Planned Parenthood and a MTV spot, which organizations are better at security than just one person.

Anyway, she recently started arguing on her videos with anti-feminists, to see if communication can be helpful. This angered people who feel that giving anti-feminists a platform is wrong, even in a a dialogue intended to open them to feminist ideas. So that has offended many offended people.

My impression is that it is probably a bad idea, because some of the people she’s spoken to really have been assholes on the internet, and it may not be a good idea to give them yet another platform, even if the intent is to argue with them. On the other hand, it’s the kind of thing that sometimes works to change minds, and that’s always a good thing.

[Update:

Ms Green and Mr Ray-gun (artist’s impression)

Ms Green recently started shagging some guy called Chris Ray-gun. I know very little about him, but apparently he takes the piss out of people who called themselves SJW, or social justice warriors. I’m sure he’s said many dodgy things in his career, but I don’t know what they are. Some people calling themselves feminists have said this is why she’s less keen to be associated with “social justice warriors. As though your politics is determined by where you put your genitals. Me, I’ve sometimes agreed with a girlfriend’s politics, and sometimes not. Some people are like that.

Ms Green took pains to point out that she is still absolutely a feminist.]

Her other recent crime appears to be that she’s mentioned that she’d been accosted by a group of feminists who’d been heckling her at some event, who then made threats of violence against her.

If you want to read a column saying that Laci Green was the problem there, and she should have apologised again to the people who were threatening her, you can read ithere.

(I don’t know the columnist and I’m unlikely to read anything else they ever write, but that specific column offered an interesting use of the passive-aggressive voice used sanctimoniously. This is only a personal reaction, but I found it oddly creepy.)

As a result, there are signs that the Community of the Terminally Self-Righteous are building up for another bash at her for having, while still a minor, made a video that was supportive of trans-gender persons but used the word “tranny”.

My impression is that she’s a good thing, incredibly decent, harmless and well-meaning, who has done an enormous amount of work on issues like abortion, contraception, sex information, kink acceptance and so on.

I should point out that I’m a dom, so I’m a filthy sexual pervert, who has the goddam gall to call himself a feminist supporter. So what I say will ipso facto have no value for some people, but for what bugger-all it’s worth I salute and support Laci Green.

Maddie waited naked, her hastily discarded dress on the floor beside her, facing my door, on her knees. She’d heard the scene with Jennifer, and she well knew the mood I’d be in. I put the cane on the floor beside her. She knew that wasn’t because I wouldn’t be needing it, but so she could pass it to me when it was time.

I saw that she’d tidied the storeroom beyond any reasonable complaint. There were neat piles of papers, clearly labelled, tidied rows of books, and the boxes made neat stacks on the upper shelves.

When I looked back at Maddie she’d opened her mouth and put her tongue forward, covering her lower teeth and pushing out her lip. The invitation was almost irresistible. She wanted, as she always did, to direct what happened. I stepped forward and slapped her face with my left hand. Her head jolted the the right, then to the left when I repeated the slap, backhanded.

They didn’t need to be hard slaps, and they weren’t. Their psychological effect on Maddie was what counted. They dropped her, instantly, into submission and a world in which she had no influence on what happened. It was only necessary for her to serve. I grabbed her hair then, unzipped and thrust hard into her mouth, filling her before she had time to gasp for breath.

She sucked me, running her tongue under my cock, keeping her eyes on mine, as she’d been told. I savoured her warm, wet harbour, and counted to ten. That was as long as she usually took to start worrying about choking. Her eyes showed worry at twelve seconds. I counted slowly to fifteen.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t hold her breathe; she could manage over a minute. It was that this was the ultimate loss of control for Maddie, and she feared it and desired it at the same time. At eighteen I pulled her, fast, off my cock, and she gasped for air.

The tears ran down her cheeks, making runnels in her mascara while she fought for air, my cock poised in her mouth for the next thrust.

Then there was no more air, only cock.I pushed against the back of her throat.

Maddie stiffened and fought for control. Eventually she relaxed, and put her hands on my shins, not for support but for affection, while nearly twenty seconds passed. So I withdrew a little, and allowed her the comfort of having her mouth rather than her throat fucked. She sucked and tongued diligently.

I watched her eyes while hers watched mine. She was happy. And she expected me to come soon.

Reluctantly, and with seconds to spare, I withdrew from her mouth. I wanted to tell her she was a good girl and had pleased me, and she plainly needed that.

But it would break the mood. I said, “You think this is tidy, Maddie?”

She frowned. “Well, yes, Sir. I thought so.”

“Well, we’ll see. Your panties are in your desk, I assume?” She’d shed them when I’d had her this morning. She knew I’d disapprove, painfully, if she’d put them back on.

I dipped my finger in the oil collected at her anus. “Hmm,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll often find this part of your body lubricated in the future.”

“Sir?”

“A man who wants you, Jennifer, will certainly need to take you here.” I pressed my finger down a little, not quite entering but letting her feel her own muscles ready to admit me. Then I spread the oil, moving down into her perineum. Jennifer’s moan was loud, and unambiguously sexual. She was nearly ready.

“But that’s in your future, girl. For now-”

I resumed stroking her buttocks and thighs, with Jennifer rising and falling under my hands. Her breathing was urgent. She was close.

At the last second, I reached low on her buttocks and pressed hard, fingers digging into where her sciatic nerves would be. Jennifer sobbed, once, and her body rose briefly from my table. She was silent after that, trying to conceal that deep and perhaps surprising orgasm she’d just had.

I maintained the pressure, and a few seconds later she gave another shudder, and then was still. Her face looked anguished. Her eyes were wet. There were tears on my desk.

I resisted the urge to take her in my arms, kiss her and praise her, and instead resumed kneading her as if nothing had happened. My cock ached, in restrictive clothing. I wanted her so powerfully.

After a minute I slowed and stopped, and gave her right buttock a pat. “I think that’ll do you, little Jennifer. I’m sure we’ve dealt with any pain.”

There was no response. Jennifer was still entranced. There was drool as well as tears on my desk. I reached for her shoulder. “Girl.” There were threats, disciplinary threats, in my voice.

She let me help her up. She stood, panties still round her knees, and looked at me, red-faced, wet-eyed. She wiped her mouth. She wore no lipstick. Suddenly she launched herself, threw her arms around my back and kissed me. It was passionate, needy. I was sure it was the first time she’d kissed a man.

I let the kiss last, because it was wonderful and I wanted to treasure it, and it meant she had surrendered to me more than she knew. Yet. She rubbed her breasts against my chest. “Thank you, sir, thank you, thank you!”

But eventually I smacked her bottom. She remembered where she was. She stepped back. “Sorry, Headmaster. I was – I just wanted to say thank you.”

Of course I smiled. “You are an incredibly good girl, Jennifer. And sweet-natured. And there’s nothing at all wrong with that.” I spoke with absolute sincerity. These things were true. “Now, the oil’s soaked into your skin, girl, so you can pull your panties up now.”

For some female reason she turned her back for this operation, so that I could watch the slow concealment of the lower half of her bottom.

When she turned to face me, a smiling girl, her face only slightly flushed, I gave her a piece of paper I’d had Maddie type earlier. She looked at it blankly. “Sir?”

“That’s a note to Wynetts. The shop your mother bought your uniform. Take that piece of paper to them – they’re expecting you this afternoon – and try on uniforms till you find one you’re comfortable in.”

“Sir, please. I can’t take-”

“There’s a school fund for exactly this sort of issue, Jennifer. You can and you will. Get s uniform that looks good. Not like the one you’re wearing now, and not too conspicuously modest either. Just get something so that you look like the other girls. All right?”

So I tried to look stern, and said, “That’s enough of that.” But I couldn’t stop smiling. I took her ear and led her to the door. “Off you go, Jennifer. See me tomorrow morning, in your new uniform.”

“Yes, Sir.” I resisted the urge to pat her bottom, and shut the door behind her. I sighed, happily. I needed release. I needed Maddie, with some urgency. After some thought, I took the senior cane from my cupboard. I had no idea if she’d properly tidied and cleaned the storeroom, and I’d warned of consequences if she hadn’t. She’d be waiting for me, having listened to, among other things, Jennifer’s beautiful, bell-like orgasm.

I’m in Dublin. I had an idea, after my father died earlier this year, that I should go to Ireland, to see where I came from, at least genetically.

Statues commemorating the Irish Potato Fame. The starving, beside the Liffey, in Dublin

Both of my parents were of almost entirely Irish stock. Though the people who were my ancestors left Ireland during or shortly after the Famine, they continued to marry other Irish expatriots over the next several generations. Although there’s the occasional Welshman or Scot in my traceable ancestry, it’s basically all Irish men and women.

I’ve always been grateful to my ancestors for leaving. Ireland is still disfigured by the Catholic Church, essentially a corporation for the enabling and protection of child rapists, and for the torture and enslavement of women, the Magdalene Laundires episode being only one example of this.

I’d been in Dublin for about six minutes when I encountered a march of young women demonstrating for the repeal of Ireland’s stupid, cruel and life-threatening ban on abortion.

I make a lousy nationalist. If I’d been living in Northern Ireland during the Troubles, I’d always have voted to be part of the United Kingdom. Not out of nationalism: I’d don’t give a fuck what Cromwell did to the Irish three hundred-odd years ago. Or the Elizabethans before that. (Both sides seem to have forgotten the Scots invasion, and the land theft, famine and massacres under Robert the Bruce’s brother Edward, because that doesn’t fit the narrative.)

I’d have voted to be in the UK because I didn’t want to have the cops, directed by the church, tell me what I’m allowed to buy in a bookshop. I’d have wanted to be able to buy contraception, which you could then do in the UK but not Eire. I’d want a woman to be able to get an abortion if she has an unwanted pregnancy. Fuck nationalism: I only care about human rights.

So it was sobering to be reminded that Eire’s abortion law is still the one dictated by the Church. Rapists, torturers, murderers and their enablers, still claiming moral authority. Sooner that’s dumped into history’s Dead Joke Box the better.

Anyway, the pain I cause is consensual, intended to help, to lead to pleasure and other kinds of growth, and never to cause harm. Ireland is full of the traces of the domination of an organisation that seeks no consent, and is entirely indifferent to the pain, suffering, harm and death it causes.

By the way, I’m thinking about pain because after Eroticon, and after seeing Gretel off on the place back to her native land, I went to Dublin and got a cold. My head hurts. Really hurts. My bones feel like I’ve been beaten up, apparently in my sleep, by the secret police. I need to cough all the time, and it hurts like hell to cough. I’ve got chills. God, I’d love a hot flush.

On the other hand, I’m outside a pub on Talbot Street, drinking coke and watching pretty girls go by. So … silver linings, that’s what you have to look out for.

I gazed, awed, at the pink blush of Jennifer’s bottom and thighs. She was still red in the spots I’d concentrated the spanks: the centre of her buttocks and the tops of her thighs.

I took the oil and poured a little trickle onto the upper cleft of her buttocks.

She’d be acutely aware of the trickle running slowly down, some collecting at her anus, and some trickling lower. She would want me to rescue her from that trickle when it reached her anus, certainly her cunt. She would want me to touch her.

As if having the same thought, she expelled her breath and moved her feet slightly apart, exposing her pretty, swollen and – I was sure – achingly wet and needy pussy. There was silence for a moment. Tribute not just to the sexual power of our situation, but also to her sheer beauty.

“That’s good, girl, that’s lovely. Your behaviour, I mean.”

“Thank you, sir.” She knew what I’d meant.

I poured a generous helping of oil onto my left hand, put the bottle down and rubbed my hands gently together. I rubbed her bottom gently until most of her bottom and thighs were slippery and shining.

Then I used more force, pressing my thumbs into the centre of her gluteal muscles. Jennifer made a little squeal of relief and pleasure, as I worked on the knots of tension in that gloriously firm and round ball of muscles.

Her upper body flattened entirely onto the desk and her ass rose, surrendering herself entirely to anything I might choose to do with her. Her head was turned so her left cheek rested on the wood. She was smiling, lips slightly parted, and her eyes shone.

I worked my way down to her parted thighs, finding and working on any knots of tension until they were gone. She made little pleasure noises as she relaxed, and I knew those would be the noises I would hear when her need and her nerve had build up to the point where she begged me to fuck her, and I decided she was ready. I resolved to hold off for at least a fortnight, no matter how prettily she begged.

The knots dealt with, I was gentler and more sensual as I stroked and pressed her thighs and bottom on the return. I wanted her to feel, just from my hands, how tender and beautiful I thought she was. She sighed, lost in pleasure, and her left foot again moved a little further to the left.

The trickle of oil running down her cleft had nearly reached her anus. I was sure that she was very aware of the oil’s slow encroachment.

I ignored it, and continued her massage, clasping and kneading her soft, now utterly relaxed, flesh. Jennifer’s sighs and other sounds were more overtly sexual, a young woman being pleasured, and her hips started to move, gently up and down as if being fucked by an invisible lover. Every breath she took was audible now. She was absorbed, and lost. Nothing existed except for my hands, I guessed.

I put my hand on her cotton-cocooned right buttock and squeezed, to remind her that there was nothing to stop her from getting her morning spanking all over again. Jennifer shivered, her soft skin and firm muscles trembling under my hand. She understood that I was threatening to repeat her spanking. But she liked my hand.

“Some people get spanked regularly and often, Jennifer-” She made a wordless noise, not of protest but of recognition. Jennifer had learned that that was the kind of girl she was. “That’s the world you’re in now. Now, girls like you often need aftercare. And if they’re been good after their spanking they should get what they need. Does that sound sensible, Jennifer?”

There was a pause. She was looking for the trap. But it was hiding in plain sight. Eventually she said, “No, that does sound reasonable, sir.”

“Now, Jennifer. You’ve got a sore bottom, but you’ve been a good girl all day, I’m told. So you can have something that can take the pain away.”

“Sir?” She sounded shocked. Her imagination was, of course, running wild. She was seconds away either from protesting or making some declaration of consent or need. The latter was more likely but I didn’t want her to do that today. She needed more time, to build up a deep and desperate need before I’d let her consent.

“It’s a natural oil mixture, with aloe vera, lavender, arnica and cocoanut oil for vitamin E. It cools the spanked area and takes away most of the pain, and sets about healing the skin. To let you sleep easy, and, well, let you sit down again without it being awkward. It’s for girls who get into trouble a lot but they’re good girls really. Would you like that?”

Nude young woman applying lotion to her bottom

There was a longer pause. Jennifer knew she wouldn’t be applying the mixture herself. That left strong, male hands kneading her flesh, healing the skin I’d hurt earlier that day.

I suspected that would appeal in its own right, and anyway it’d be better than going home with a sore bottom.

Finally and bravely Jennifer said, “Yes, I’d like that. You mean like a massage. I like those.”

I collected the tube of oils from the corner of my desk, where it lived with the pens pencils and felt tips and paperclips. I put a dab on the lowest vertebrae in the small of her back. A subdued, noctural animal sound from Jennifer. She was so needy, so aroused.

I put my fingers in the upper hem of her panties, and pulled them, not down, but away from her skin, revealing a perfect bottom, unlikely to be quite as sore as she’d claimed but still prettily pink from her spanking.

Jennifer groaned. “Oh sir, please. Can you leave my panties up?”

“Have I already seen your bottom, Jennifer? Quite recently?”

“Um. Well, yes, sir. You did. You have.”

“So is it something about your panties, then? Have you got a laptop hidden down there?”

She laughed. “No, sir.”

“So you’re fussing, girl. All right, you can help me. You take them down for me. All the way to your knees, please.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jennifer reached back obediently. The panties came down, slowly, as if she felt it was a gift that should be savoured inch by inch. She pulled the bunched cotton past the fleshiest part of her bottom and tugged them all the way down as instructed.

She was a spanked angel, smelling of musk and almond flour, half naked over my desk.

When I opened the door Maddie was feeding another ream of paper into the photocopier. I knew the paper drawer had been full to maximum before Jennifer walked into my office, and there was no chance it could have run out. She’d stopped the copier to listen to Jennifer and me.

But she bent steeply at the waist while she lowered the paper into place. She knew the effect that was likely to have on me, and hoped it’d distract me.

“Well, Maddie. Did you hear everything you wanted. We weren’t talking too quietly for you?”

Maddie didn’t blush. And she looked me in the eyes with the utmost sincerity. “Uh, you were talking? I wasn’t …”

She indicated the photocopier. “I was fixing this…” Then she lost her mock-innocent look and laughed. “Oh, my god, she really got to you, didn’t she?”

I didn’t look down. I knew my erection had to be obvious even through a suit. Once Jennifer had left I’d stopped trying to will it down. Instead I said, “A student being punished is entitled to some privacy. Maddie, did I tell you told to listen in, while a student is being disciplined? Or were you told to keep the photocopier going?”

Maddie stepped closer. I did what I needed to do, and put my hands on her ass and squeezed. A woman, not a girl. Firm in my hands. I spread my fingers on voluptuous rounded womanhood, and said, “Oh girl.”

I meant Maddie, but I don’t think she thought I meant her.

But she only paused for a second before she rubbed her lower belly against my cock. “I don’t think you need to punish another girl. Well, not first. Not just now. And we should talk. But not just now.” She reached between us and took my hard cock in her palm, thumb and forefinger pressing along its length.

“Uh. Ahhh. Haaaaaa.”

Maddie smiled, too smugly. So I held her right shoulder and smacked her with my left, spinning her till she faced the photocopier again. I pushed her down, and pulled up her tight little skirt, easing it up over her ass. Maddie said, “Should we -?”

But I smacked her ass, hard, to stop her talking. I unzipped and freed my erection.

Maddie flattened over the top of the copier while I pulled the gusset of her knickers to the side and pushed my cock between her plump lips, all the way into her.

Whatever she’d heard, when she listened to Jennifer and me, had aroused her too. She was slick and wet, and she sighed with satisfaction when I filled her. She straightened her spread legs and arched her ass up. I couldn’t be slow or careful. I held her down hard with my hand on her shoulder and bucked into her, grunting. As deep and fast as we could.

Subscribe to My Blog!

There are four posts a week. They tend to be fairly substantial, and either sexy, funny or informative, or some combination thereof.
I'd love to have more subscribers!
You'd love to know when I've posted something new, too!